“The lark became a sightless song.”
In the other, there was an evening glow: warm, orange-grey sky, cooling into steel-blue; a bower2 of rose-leaves; an earnest face, with darker hair, and pensive3 brow, flushed into warmth by the setting sun. And you would know, even had you not been told, that the child, old enough just to enjoy that young melancholy4 which is pleasant,—is listening to that
“Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, Rings Eden through the budded quicks.”
For in neither case is the songster seen: with true art the66 minstrel is left to the imagination to supply, and this subtler artist can furnish voice, form, motion; only one of which three could be given by the painter.
These pictures were in the Winter Exhibition; hence, no doubt, their suggestion of the absent bird-songs was the more valued. For perhaps these, like other delights, are the sweetest when they are not possessed5, but only remembered and longed-for.
That remembrance, however, of Winter, will serve, by contrast, to freshen our enjoyment6, as we start, on this warm March day, for Bramley Wood, to descry7 and collect the old familiar bird-songs as they come back to us in the Spring. To collect these and the flowers, I say, in the heart’s cases and herbarium, for use when Winter comes, and woods are dead, and bird-songs gone. This is a better way than to crowd the staircase and hall with stuffed, silent birds, or to encumber8 your shelves with dried, brittle9, brown specimens10; which can never suggest the fresh, juicy, sweet-breathed blossoms, or the quick, never-still, bright-glancing inhabitants of the bushes. For the heart keeps these collections all fresh and full of life, and if a picture or a poem or a strain of music does but summon them up, why, there they are in a minute. Though they may have seemed laid by and forgotten, yet, at the magic call, lo! the heart is a lane of primroses11, or a copse of bluebells13; the lark is high in the heaven, and the thrush answering the blackbird out of great white sheets of the may.
We soon settle down to the bird-songs when once they have really all come back; and we plod14 on our preoccupied15 way, hearing them without hearing, unless, indeed, one day-note of a67 nightingale should electrify16 our heart. But there is no doubt that, at first returning, the silver minstrelsy of the woods is welcomed by most. And we never grow too old to feel a heart-kindling and a brightening of the eye, on that mild November day, when we start, and listen, and—yes, it is, the first Thrush-song breaking the meditative18 misty19 hush20 of the landscape. Autumn is stringing the woods with tears, and the first gripe of Winter has ere now pinched to death the more delicate garden flowers; but, even before his reign21 has begun in earnest, here is a voice which prophesies22 of his overthrow23. Then the frosts come in defiance24, and the last leaves spin down, and the snow-sheet falls, and the thrush is silent as though dead, and resistance seems overcome, and Winter’s reign established. An observant eye will, however, still detect a speckled clean breast, flitting into alternate concealment27 and sight behind the bushes in the shrubbery, and rustling28 the counterpane of dry leaves, under which those many little dull-green points are crowding out of the frost-held ground. But his song is kept in reserve for a time. And it seems that Spring is close at hand, and that the year is indeed turned, when next you hear him, high on the boughs30 of that tulip tree, large against the pale blue sky, singing out loud and clear from early morning to dusk of a bright February day. And the dry leaves have huddled31 away from the searching wind, and left the brown moist beds, over which trembles a surprise of delicate white cups, where the blunt dull-green points had been.
But I mean now to muse33 in a fanciful way about the characteristics of these returning songs, and the teaching that68 may be gathered from them. Canon Evans’ little book, “The Songs of the Birds,” might seem to have preoccupied this ground, but the treatment will differ, if the idea be the same.
To what, then, shall we liken the song of the Thrush? Different temperaments34 of men and women may well be illustrated35 by the variety in the character of the bird-songs. In the thrush’s song, then, I seem to hear the utterance36 of the strong and happy Christian37. He has never been troubled with any doubts; the dark dismays and hidden misgivings38 of other minds are without meaning to him. Clear and glad, and untroubled, and strong in faith, the soul of this man sits upon wintry trees, above few trembling flowers, under a pale still sky, and sings from the early morning to the dusking eve an unwavering, undoubting, happy song. A song in which there are not weird39 mysterious depths of feeling, nor ecstatic, incomprehensible heights, but in which there is ever an even tenor40, a stedfast sustained gladness, an unchecked unvarying trust. A song, perhaps, not of the highest intellect, but of the firmest faith. Here are no dark questionings, that must be content to pause for an answer hereafter; no evil suggestions, fiery41 darts42 which the shield of faith must ever be upheld to quench43. There is almost a hard ignoring and turning away from minds otherwise fashioned; minds full of anxieties and searchings, that are troubles indeed, but not doubts; struggles, but not defeats, because faith upholds where sight fails. These sing more broken snatches of more passionate44 music, amid thicker branches, and in the dusk; while the thrush-spirit, unknowing of these fierce alternations, sings out, up there69 upon the naked bough29, clear and distinct against the blue soft sky.
There is a wild stormy note which must detain us awhile from our March wood. It comes early in January, and on stormy days, under thin driving clouds, you may hear short bursts, as though the broken song of a husky blackbird, flung from the ivy-clad top of some tall, ancient spruce-fir. This is the note of the Missel-thrush, or Storm-cock. He seems rather to exult45 in the disturbed sky, and swaying boughs, and passing gleams and showers. There is a wild beauty, tempered with a little harshness, in the short sharp snatches of defiant46 and militant47 song. In him I find a type of the religious controversialist and disputant; the watchman set on his tower amid storms and lowering days. Such watchers there are, and they are useful to detect and descry the insidious48 approach of error. Controversialists-born, as it were, you shall ever hear their sharp short utterances49 under a stormy sky; and while you value the note, you will often detect and deplore50 some touch of harshness that grates upon the heart, some falling short of the mellow51 flute-like tones of Love.
But on our way to the wood, and as we pass through this meadow, a Skylark springs up, and flutters higher and higher; fountain-like, as it rises, scattering52 about its silver spray of song. Very soon the eye wanders about, searching after it for some time in vain, pleased at last to recover the dim black speck25 in the grey sky.
I suppose that the picture of which I spoke53 above gives the natural embodiment of the song of the lark.
70
“Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall; A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall54.”
Up into the sky, bright thoughts and dreams, quivering wings, swelling55 throat, hurrying ecstasies56 and crowding notes of joy, impatient, yet impossible to be uttered. Careless flowers upon the lap,—withering, are they? But there is a worldful more to be had for the gathering57. Oh yes, the lark’s song is that of the young heart—young enough to stop short at the attainment58 of simple gladness. There is not yet upon it the sweet hush even of love and sentiment, the upward soaring has no alternate dip and rise; the quick beat of the wings no pause; the bright flash of song no dyings-down into shade. Wonder at life goes hand in hand with joy in it; all is new and all is delicious; all is hope, and nothing is disappointing; the whole widening prospect59 is one of beauty and glad surprise. The year is in its early Spring, and has never so much as heard of Autumn yet; nor can guess, nor cares to try to divine, what those old brown leaves can mean, out of which huddle32 the thick primrose12 clumps60. Higher and higher, and brighter and brighter, and gladder and gladder, and more and more impetuous the thronging61 notes, and more and more untiring the ecstatic wing. And God loves to see this, for He gave the feeling; and we may perceive that He has allotted62 to most things a young life of fresh colour and unmixed joyfulness63. Kittens and lambs, and Spring leaves, and young children—they all sober down soon enough—and well they should. But let us not grudge64 the short hour of pure lightness of heart, that was God’s gift; nor hunt for ripe71 fruit among the sheets of blossom; nor dull with our heart’s twilight65 the first flush of the morning; nor desire, in the song of the lark, the thoughtfulness of the blackbird—far less the moan of the dove. Let not our work ever be to check, only to guide, and to tend, and to develop, the heart’s songful gladness, pointing it, indeed, heavenward; or, again, ready to tend the germ which some gust66 has stolen from its white petal-wings.
I spoke of the Blackbird. And here, as we near the wood, towards which for some long time we have been walking, we catch the smooth, rich, lyric67 fragments of this deep-hearted poet. Less openly, freely, fearlessly confident and exulting68 in an unclouded soul, than the thrush,—there is something exceedingly fascinating in the intermitted, but not broken song of the blackbird. The pauses which sever69 the stanzas70 of his song, seem well suited to its lyric character. There are in these separate and finished verses the polish and completeness, also the richness and liquid flow, of a set of stanzas of “In Memoriam,” and, moreover, something of their wild mournfulness and tender, deep, questioning thought. The blackbird’s song is that of the grave, mature mind, highly intellectual, somewhat touched with sadness, but more with love, and that has had to battle hard through life to keep both faith and love unimpaired.
“The blackbird’s song at eventide”:
thus it is described, and, in truth, it seems the passionate earnest utterance of one who can understand the difficulties which have blown down unrooted trees, and yet has itself72 possession of that faith which can control into music notes that make a jarring in undisciplined minds. The riddle71 of this painful earth has often wrung72 the heart of this man, but his sorrowful thoughts concerning it have shaped themselves into these rich utterances of yearning73 love. This trumpet74 gives no uncertain sound; the speaking is clear, and distinct, and unfaltering. You are, as I said, reminded of the controversial storm-bird by its tones, but all that would have been harsh in its outspoken75 truthfulness76, is mellowed77 and softened78 by an exquisite79 overmastering charm of tender and patient love. So that the blackbird’s song is that of mature faith, which has met and vanquished80 anxious questionings, and which, if that of a controversialist at all, is only that of one on whom old age is stealing, and whom experience has made gentle and patient; and yearning for souls has made passionate; and love of Christ has made tenderly and invincibly81 loving. And so when it thrills out clear and full from his hidden quiet retreat in the evening time, even those that think that there is cause for old grudges82 against the minstrel are arrested reverently83 to listen to his deep, thoughtful, loving song.
We are at the wood now, at last. We have followed a pleasant stream that played hide-and-seek among its willows84, and, while we talked and listened, we have gathered in gleanings of its beauty. And now we cross the narrow plank—parting the branches that half conceal26 it—and enter the wood. There are tiny pink balls ready to burst into vivid buds, gemming86 the hawthorn87 bushes; but the trees and underwood are bare, except for the willow85 catkins and the hazel tassels88, or perhaps the dull green of the elder in a tuft here and there,75 or the early leaf-bud of a twining honeysuckle. But the pale smooth ash saplings, tall and slim, and silver-grey in the sun, with a narrow shadow edge, the branches studded with black buds; and the golden twigs89 of the white-stemmed birch; and the warm light brown of the hazel boughs; and the red of the cherry,—these make the wood, though bare, yet neither dull nor colourless. And here, farther in, the many stems are fringed and bearded with the hoary90 and abundant growth of lichen91, cool as the bloom on a greengage, against the pale orange which still lingers in ragged92 patches upon the six-feet stalks of last year’s bracken.
Certainly there is, all around us in the wood, much material for musing93. But we have come hither for a special end. For it is the thirteenth of March, and by this time the first of the train of those songsters, that fly to warmer shores to escape our Winter, ought to have returned. So, all ears, we proceed over the crisp leaves, disturbing the bobbing rabbits. And there! I heard the note—simple enough, yet pleasing even in itself, and sweet as being the forerunner94 of songs more rich. Chiff-chaff,—this dissyllable gives this Willow-wren’s note and name. There is not much in it, may be, still it is the little tuning-fork of the coming concert. And we are reminded by it of some gentle spirit which longs and tries to say a cheery and hopeful word to a heart which has been under wintry skies; that which it repeats may not indeed be very new, very powerful, or very varied95; still, it is accepted and loved for the sake of its truth and affection.
This bird has a relation, due some few days later, whose song, though but little more pretentious96, is yet a great favourite76 with me. I call it the laughing Willow-wren; and indeed its note does at once suggest a small silvery peal97 of merry light-hearted glee. Again and again, peal after peal; flitting through the boughs, almost the tiniest of slim birdlings.
“Gaiety without eclipse,”
it certainly is, and yet it does not weary us, this ceaseless “silver-treble laughter.” This song has its parallel in some life, gay and blight98 and glad from first to last; hiding for a sobered moment from a shower or a storm, but anon and on a sudden recovering its innocent glee again. Delicate and slim, and easily frightened, but never long troubled; very winning and loveable; too tender and pretty for the hardest hand to crush; never doing huge deeds in the world, but of the same value that a fugitive99 sunbeam would be in a heavy and gloomy wood, or a daisy in a desert. Keeping the Child’s heart through the Woman’s life; feeling sorrow lightly, and with an April heart; disarming100 anger or harshness by its simple gleeful innocence101; frail102 yet safe as a feather upon the whirls and eddies103 of life. Laugh on, light and cheery heart, amid the jay’s harsh dissonance, and the blackbird’s thought, and the thrush’s strength, and the dove’s sadness! Amid Life’s gravities and stern realities there is a grateful place for the gleams of a glad-hearted song like thine!
What variety in the character of the bird-music! Hark, for a moment, at those wise, solemn caws, and watch those sedate104, respectable, gravely-clad Rooks sailing across this opening above us; so black and cleanly painted against the filmy blue. Caw! This is the voice of a steady, respectable mediocrity,77 that by reason of its deep, portentous105 gravity, and weighty utterance, and staid appearance, might be almost mistaken for philosophy. True, the utterance, if profound, is not remarkable106 for variety; but then the manner will often make up for lack of matter. And it is something to have one maxim107 or apophthegm which may be fitted to every case. To all the world’s customs and businesses, its problems and aspirings, its cries and laughter, he gravely and meditatively108 listens. And when you eagerly await his verdict, he puts his sapient109 head on one side, looks at you out of one eye,
“And says,—what says he? Caw!”
The young impatient askers, the subtle and patient tracers of78 truth’s hidden vein110, will chafe111 at his sedate utterances, and in time take their confidences elsewhere. But he can get on without them, and will never want for company of his kind. Raised above all intellectual excitements, and never in a hurry, the rooks step side by side with stately dignity over the scarred earth; or wing a heavy and cautious flight towards the trees; or sail serene112 in the still sky. For though there may be times when
“The rooks are blown about the skies,”
this haste is involuntary, and must no doubt for the time much discomfort113 the methodical and stately traveller. And no doubt such characters are as useful ballast in the world, and well counterbalance the full excited sails, and the mad fluttering pennons above them. Commonplace, unruffled, happy Christians114 are these; with some they gain reputation for wisdom, with some for folly115; but they go evenly on; not much troubled by sunshine or storm; not caring to enter into the dusks and gleams of the more passionate songsters and thinkers; ever with one quiet and not unmelodious answer: a life rather of deeds than of words. Caw, to all your spasms116 and heart-searchings,—and then I must just away to my work. Up in the tall trees, bending and swaying to break off the twigs for the nest; practical, if not colloquial117; early at work in the morning, and at home in good time in the evening; a life not excited nor greatly eventful, but that has its own quiet, serene lesson.
A day or two hence we might hear a notable and distinguished118 visitor to the woods and shrubberies. Even now,79 I have once or twice paused, half-fancying that I heard his voice, and ready to do honour to such a guest. For, while you are momently expecting to hear the Blackcap, the warbling of the meditative Robin119 has, here and there, a note which puzzles you. You follow out the voice, and there, on an elm branch, is the dark eye, and the warm breast, and the comfortable shape; and you feel half ashamed to have mistaken such a familiar friend for a stranger.
The Blackcap is indeed a wonderful little warbler. So small and so energetic, thrilling song and swelling throat; brown body and whitish chest and jetty head. There are those who trace a resemblance to the nightingale’s song in its quick joyous120 utterances. If so, certainly the melody is but a suggestion here and there, and not a sustained and continuous resemblance. Shall I be unkind to the sweet little songster, if here I write that its song has its counterpart in the life of unequal Christians? Many there are who, now and then, in thought, word, or deed, seem to touch some perfect chord, and then disappoint the intent listener by sinking down to the more commonplace again.
A moment, and there seemed a strain of angelic utterance, but it was not sustained, and you turn away disappointed at a more homely121 song which would otherwise have pleased you well. You do not look for Seraph122 notes in the hedge-sparrow’s song, or the wren’s chatting, and so you are well content with these. But high hopes unfulfilled become disappointment, and you feel an injury in having to resign the exalted123 idea which you had taken up; until, at last you see yourself in the sweet,80 but unequal and inadequate124 song; and learn to reverence125 and to love the ever-failing and unsustained effort after higher things. Thus, ay thus, do you aim high, and ever fall below your aim; there is one touch of heaven, and a hundred of earth, in the broken and unsustained song of your life; and yet you would rather strive with hopeless yearning after the nightingale’s music, than acquiesce126 content with the lesser127 warblings, which accomplish the less that they attempted. Sing on, then, little bird, to an answering heart! In your song I read the rises and falls, the endeavours and failings, the aspirings and rare glimpses of attainment, which are the sweet exceptions, and the commonplace and every-day Christianity, which is the rule, of a life that would fain become the song of an Angel, but that scarce reaches the homeliest warble of the simplest wayside bird. Let us aim high, if we still fall below our passionate striving; let us never acquiesce quietly in less than Perfection; hereafter—who knows? who knows?
It is evening now, as we wend our way home. A thin sickle128 of light is barred by the slender topmost ash twigs, and the sky is deepening to that cold, clear dusk, that foreruns twilight. We hear a quiet song, far away—the Woodlark’s note always seems far away—you would have asked me the name of the not-generally-familiar songster, but I have just given it. “That, the woodlark? Well, I never heard, or never noticed it before” I dare say. But if is a quiet, saintly song; a heavenly voice, serene and clear, never passionate: a twilight, still, calm song, removed far away from the world’s81 bustle129, and deeply imbued130 with wisdom and melody from a Land far beyond this eager fevered strife131. It is not glad, nor sorrowful; nor so much thoughtful as spiritual. It images to us that life which, separated from the world, is yet not ascetic;82 unobtrusive, yet fascinating when once perceived and heeded132; simple, somewhat as is the language of St. John, but with unfathomable suggestions and revelations when you come to study and learn it. Quite away from controversy133 and strife, there is in it a divine peace, an entranced contemplation, a serene and peaceful uplifting of the soul. Perhaps the writings of Archbishop Leighton best give words to my ideal of the woodlark’s song.
But those throbbing134 coos must stay our foot ere we quite leave the wood. The Dove—its voice is, of course, the embodiment of love; troubled, but not passionate; earnest, but not of earth merely. It has a melancholy vehemence135, a sobbing136 urging of its cause, that is rather the voice of one seeking the good of another than its own delight. There is a tremulousness, a trembling fulness that might be that of one bidding farewell in death to some very dear friend whom he fain would win to the right and happy path, but for whom he sadly stands in doubt. There is such abundance from which to speak, such love and such mournfulness in saying it, that you smile with the tears near your eyes, on suddenly recollecting137 whither fancy was leading you, and that it is, after all, but the old old story being beautifully and melodiously139 told. For you caught a sight of the ash-blue wing, the mild eye, and swelling crop, and of the mate on a branch close by; and so your fancy was overturned.
But there is one song which we shall not hear yet, as we return home from the wood; of which, nevertheless, some words must be said. Yet what words have even the greatest83 word-masters yet found for the Nightingale’s unearthly melody! What other song has even a likeness140 of the instantaneous and riveting141 fascination142 that is produced by one note of this? It is music which speaks, not to what we call the heart, merely, or the intellect, merely, but straight at once to that mysterious divine thing within us, which we call the spirit.
And so it represents that recognition of, and yearning for, an ideal perfection and beauty, which many own, but few can express. And thus we start to hear it represented and embodied143 in sound without language, and, without knowing how, acknowledge a dumb music in ourselves which is closely akin17 to this superhuman and unearthly song. And we cannot, if we try, exactly define its character; some call it joyous; more sorrowful. But perhaps there is a hint in it of something within us higher and deeper than either of these; else how can it thus startle and electrify our being? At least it tells us of melody that we cannot yet grasp or fully138 understand, of beauty and harmony and perfection that is not yet our own. And I liken it to the raptured144 speakings of the prophet, or to an echo of the angelic messages seldom brought to earth.
Well, ’tis difficult, and perhaps hopeless, to strive to interpret the songs of these little minstrels of God. After all, each heart will set them to words of its own. And, by leading others to do so, perhaps my musings may best fulfil their end. Many a one who would have appreciated them, misses the pictures in earth’s great gallery, and84 the music of earth’s great concert, for want of a finger to point him once to the one, and a hand on his shoulder to arrest his attention for the other. And it is worth regarding pictures at which God is working, and to listen to songs which yet remain in a saddened world, exactly as He first taught them.
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1
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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3
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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7
descry
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| v.远远看到；发现；责备 | |
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encumber
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| v.阻碍行动，妨碍，堆满 | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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bluebells
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| n.圆叶风铃草( bluebell的名词复数 ) | |
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plod
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| v.沉重缓慢地走，孜孜地工作 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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electrify
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| v.使充电；使电气化；使触电；使震惊；使兴奋 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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prophesies
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的第三人称单数 ) | |
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overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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35
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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36
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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37
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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38
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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40
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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41
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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42
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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43
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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44
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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45
exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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46
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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47
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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48
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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49
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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50
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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51
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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52
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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53
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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54
thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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55
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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56
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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57
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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58
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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59
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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60
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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61
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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62
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
joyfulness
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64
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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65
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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66
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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67
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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68
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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69
sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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70
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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71
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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72
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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73
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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74
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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75
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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76
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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77
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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78
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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79
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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80
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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81
invincibly
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| adv.难战胜地，无敌地 | |
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82
grudges
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| 不满，怨恨，妒忌( grudge的名词复数 ) | |
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83
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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84
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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85
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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86
gemming
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| 点缀（gem的现在分词形式） | |
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87
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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88
tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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89
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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90
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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91
lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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92
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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93
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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94
forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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95
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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96
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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97
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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98
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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99
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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100
disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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101
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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102
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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103
eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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104
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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105
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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106
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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107
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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108
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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109
sapient
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| adj.有见识的，有智慧的 | |
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110
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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111
chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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112
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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113
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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114
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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115
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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116
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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117
colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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118
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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119
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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120
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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121
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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122
seraph
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| n.六翼天使 | |
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123
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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124
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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125
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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126
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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127
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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128
sickle
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| n.镰刀 | |
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129
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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130
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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131
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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132
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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134
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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135
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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136
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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137
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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138
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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139
melodiously
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140
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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141
riveting
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| adj.动听的，令人着迷的，完全吸引某人注意力的；n.铆接（法） | |
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142
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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143
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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144
raptured
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| 欢天喜地的，狂喜的，销魂的 | |
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